


Finders Keepers

by EjBlaKit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dirty Talk, Draco Malfoy is at his wits end, F/M, Filthy, Hermione Granger is in Denial, Hot and messy denial, Masturbation, No library is safe, Smut, Wifey Gift, fanfic of a fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EjBlaKit/pseuds/EjBlaKit
Summary: A fanfic of 'Law of Reciprocity' by LucidLucy/XelineA follow on from a forbidden encounter behind a dungeon tapestry.She bit her lower lip and rubbed her legs together again, the fabric of her skirt feeling particularly abrasive today. Possibly because she was overheated and sweating, legs sticking to the uncomfortable chair. Evidently there was a heating issue in the usually crisp library. How was no one else hot? A quick, surreptitious glance at the neighbouring desks revealed a motley of house scarves and jumpers masquerading as students. Preposterous.She fanned at her face, sure her cheeks were bright red. She gripped her quill tighter, smearing ink and almost cracking the delicate shaft as her traitorous brain turned yet again to hot breath against her cheek, and the curl of a tongue around her index and middle finger.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 298





	Finders Keepers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xeline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xeline/gifts), [LucidLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucidLady/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Law of Reciprocity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24310315) by [Lucidlucy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucidlucy/pseuds/Lucidlucy), [Xeline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xeline/pseuds/Xeline). 



> A fanfic of my dearest wifey's fanfic. Because who could read 'Law of Reciprocity' and NOT want to reciprocate? Because holy bejeebus, dear lord in heaven, hallowed be my underwear.
> 
> I also do not know why there are religious references here. 
> 
> Perhaps because wifey is my heaven in any fandom she touches? Who knows. I don't. 
> 
> Smut ahoy!

She pressed her thighs together and pointedly didn’t look at her fingers. She didn’t look at her fingers as she didn’t think about the hot wetness of a particularly vile mouth suckling at them. She was concentrating on studying, because there was an Arithmancy exam and one could never be too prepared.

Three weeks, though.

She bit her lower lip and rubbed her legs together again, the fabric of her skirt feeling particularly abrasive today. Possibly because she was overheated and sweating, legs sticking to the uncomfortable chair. Evidently there was a heating issue in the usually crisp library. How was no one else hot? A quick, surreptitious glance at the neighbouring desks revealed a motley of house scarves and jumpers masquerading as students. Preposterous.

She fanned at her face, sure her cheeks were bright red. She gripped her quill tighter, smearing ink and almost cracking the delicate shaft as her traitorous brain turned yet again to hot breath against her cheek, and the curl of a tongue around her index and middle finger.

The quill did snap this time and she gave a wordless, muted shriek, perfectly library appropriate for a stressed student. 

That was it. With a wobbly flick of her wand, everything on the desk whisked into her overstuffed bag, and Hermione fled the normally safe haven of the library. 

What had they done? What was happening to her? Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d been frigging herself to thoughts of him the first time, of that steel gaze caught on hers, the flex of his grip on Parkinson, the rock of his hips, the sound of it ... and then ... to know the smell, how his breath tasted, the sound of him and the words; oh the words had her poor clit begging for mercy. Because of his voice, because of the filthy, unforgivable things he’d uttered, she’d been rubbing herself raw and still she couldn’t stop. Wasn’t it supposed to have stopped? Shouldn’t having been caught by him, by _Malfoy_ , killed the urge? Instead it just seemed to amplify it.

And the softness, that change in him right at the end ...

She stumbled, almost catching the trick step on the stairs, too lost in her own addled brain to pay attention to where she was going. Fortunately no one was around to see her faux pas, so she clutched her book bag tighter to her chest, burying her red cheeks and hurried to her dorm. 

And it wasn’t as though she could hide from him now, either. Not after he’d called her out on it. So she’d seen him constantly since then. At breakfast, in the halls, in class. He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, as though nothing had ever happened. And nothing had, so it was good he was acting like his usual snotty self. Well, something had happened ... her face pressed into his jumper, feeling him tense, the shudder that ran through him as he ... why did she even care if he hadn’t glanced twice at her? She kicked her shoes off and dropped her bag on the floor, staring down at her bed spread in dismay. She couldn’t even remember getting through the common room. 

At least no one else was back, enjoying the sunshine and roaming the grounds no doubt. Which meant she could get herself off quickly so she could get back to the more important things, like her bloody arithmancy exam on Monday. 

She reached for her wand, and felt her frown deepen and a flutter of panic in her gut. Panic that turned to abject terror as she found her pockets, her bag, and even her hair devoid of the one thing a wizard or witch should never be without. 

Her wand was missing.

This time she remembered going through the relatively deserted common room. Her wand wasn’t on the floor, it hadn’t rolled under any furniture. It wasn’t by the portrait. The last place she could remember it being was the library, packing her bag. Surely she’d placed it ... she had put it down. The echo of releasing it was there, floating around her usually perfect recall, but then there was only a hot tongue, wet pressure, heat and fabric pressed against her face, the nudge of knuckles against her stomach. The smell of cologne.

Fucking. Malfoy.

Yes she was going to swear about him because _fucking Malfoy_ was now not only ruining her sleep, and otherwise healthy adolescent fantasies, but now her mind! Her thoughts, her recall. Was she going to start writing his name repeatedly in lieu of the properly constructed sentences that she’d memorised for her exams? It was a tad ludicrous, but was she not also now marching down echoing corridors in search of her wand? What witch in her right mind lost her wand? Not even Lavender had lost her wand. How utterly embarrassing if anyone were to find out, not that anyone would. Her wand would be on the library desk, she would get it, go back to her dorm and wank like the helpless pervert she was, and then resume her academics.

“Hermione!” She couldn’t help the sigh that escaped her lungs forcefully, as though her thoughts had summoned her roommates. With a pained smile, she stopped and turned to face the group of girls. “We’re going up to play a game, did you want to join us?” Lavender asked, all saccharine sweetness. Hermione could read between the lines fairly easily, and even if she hadn’t been on a fairly dire mission she would have been responding exactly the same.

“Sorry,” she said, the least bit repentantly, “but I’ve got to see a Professor this afternoon about a homework assignment.” There was no way on earth she was sitting in their dorm and listening to them talk about their conquests, listening to them try to weasel details out of her. For an instant she pictured the looks on their faces if she admitted to what had happened in the alcove ... 

“Oh,” Lavender actually looked a little put out, but she shook it off with a giggle and flounced off. 

Great.

Now she’d have to wait until her patrol tonight, where she’d probably somehow find herself down near the dungeons again, behind a particular tapestry ... damnit Hermione! She was starting to understand why the boys could be so clueless sometimes if this was what happened when all the blood in her body was located south of her waist. 

Unfortunately there was no wand handle sticking out from a suit of armour, trapped under the tassel of a rug, or even suspended on a stair. So she pressed through the library doors as though her lungs weren’t constricting and the blood in her veins weren’t crystallising with ice in her panic. Her footsteps felt unnaturally loud as she clipped past occupied desks, through the stacks to the table she normally occupied, towards the back where the Ravenclaws dwelled. 

And the desk was empty.

The chairs pushed in, the surface conspicuously clear. Nothing under the table, nothing under the nearby stack. A fourth year glanced curiously at her as she crouched down to check.

What was she supposed to do now, go to Professor McGonagoll and say that she’d lost her wand? She wouldn’t survive the embarrassment, let alone the disappointment of a respected Professor. 

A flash of blond in the corner of her eye snapped her head up and gained her entire attention. Against her better judgement she followed, slipping out of sight of the desks and heading towards the restricted section, and a stack featuring particularly dry tomes on magical history. How anything to do with magic could be so dry was still beyond her. She didn’t have to go much further, it turned out. She paused, a hand pressed to the books at her side as she came face to face with Malfoy. He looked exhausted. Strung out and weary, but the smirk was still there, cruel and biting. 

“Bored, Granger?” He drawled, and the way his voice wrapped around her name made it both an insult and a turn on. She scowled in response, but as she opened her mouth to respond she caught sight of the wand he was twirling in his fingers.

“That’s mine!” She said instead, anger suddenly at the fore as she stalked closer, cognisant enough of her surroundings to keep her voice low to avoid the displeasure of Pince. 

“Finders keepers,” he said, leaning against the shelves behind him, arms folded against his chest, wand still twirling. She reached out to grab it, but his height was an advantage as he held it deftly over her head, and she was suddenly aware of how much closer she was, looking up into his darkening eyes, his lips twisting a little more cruelly. “I suppose you can have it back,” he said, “after all, we can’t have you failing at being the biggest swot in this school's history now, can we?” She wouldn’t jump for it, but it was a damned near thing. She wouldn’t belittle herself like some small child, desperate for what was hers, clutched in the hands of a bully.

And then he was in her face, breath hot across her skin, smelling of tea from lunch. She’d never thought the scent of tea could be attractive. Not that Malfoy was attractive. He was talking again, and her brain whirred pathetically for a moment as she struggled to process exactly what he’d said.

“No.” Hermione took a deliberately huge step back out of his personal space. “Absolutely not.”

“I’d say it’s only fair,” he lowered the vinewood wand and twirled it tauntingly. She grit her teeth so hard she was surprised none of them cracked. 

“We’re in the library!” She hissed, as if that was the only issue with his polite request. He shrugged an insolent shoulder. “Someone will see!” The other shoulder lifted, lowered, and a brow arched lazily. 

“Shame this will go missing until after your transfiguration practical then.” She felt woozy with how quickly the blood drained from her face and turned to lead in her feet. He wouldn’t, would he? The utter gall of that ferret-faced bastard! Her fingers bunched tightly into the fabric of her skirt, raising it an inch up her thighs. His gaze dropped instantly, and a traitorous furl of heat unwound in her gut.

She bit her bottom lip, studied the seriousness on his face, the tension of his shoulders in his otherwise apparently casual posture, her wand in his grasp. In the hand that he’d worked himself over with. The fabric rose even higher before she was fully conscious of it. When she was aware of what she was doing she didn’t stop until her knickers were exposed to him. She took satisfaction in the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. 

“You make plain cotton look fuckable,” he said so lowly she almost didn’t hear him. But then he waved her wand at her, a gesture to get on with it, and now it was her turn to swallow thickly. 

Hermione was not an exhibitionist. She knew she wasn’t. That was firmly in the no column, although voyeurism was apparently a fairly big yes, now joined by mutual masturbation and pointy-faced blonds. The alcove had been pure necessity, not from some thrill of possibly being caught. What if it had been Harry to find her. Or _Snape_? She could feel the blood drain from her face again.

No, no she couldn’t do this in the library. Her sacred place, her refugee. She couldn’t … she’d go to McGonagall, explain that Malfoy had stolen her wand, or perhaps that it had just vanished, so Malfoy couldn’t then explain how he came to have her wand when he was inevitably hauled in for questioning. It was a better plan than this, certainly. Assuredly.

So why was she still standing amongst the stacks, with her skirt held up, showing Malfoy her knickers? And why was she getting decidedly wet just by the way he was staring at her?

His throat bobbed again, a dry swallow, she could hear it clicking. 

“Granger,” he rumbled low in his chest, “Hermione.” The wand in his grasp was limp. She could dart forward, grab it. She even shifted her grip, tucking her skirt into her waistband so her butt was still covered from behind. And then she tucked her fingers into the elastic and she tugged down. Not lunging forward. Obeying.

Down, impossibly down.

Cheeks burning with mortification as she stepped clear of the maroon underwear, horribly cliche, but comfortable. Or they had been. Because now she was exposed to the air, and the curls around her lips were decisively damp. 

Malfoy’s eyes went wide, then half-lidded, mouth parted and cheeks pink.

“Fuck … _fuck_ Granger, just- I’ve thought about this, of seeing you, and now you’re just, _fuck_!” He was leaning towards her, limbs slack, disbelieving, but the grey was rapidly being swallowed by storm clouds. In two rapid steps she found a wall of books at her back and a panting Malfoy at her front and no underwear between her and his trousers. But he wasn’t touching. It was like the alcove all over again, and she inhaled deeply, too bewildered to feel guilty. Too at a loss for how she could see her underwear on the ground behind him, how his fingers were wrapping now about her wrist and guiding her fingertips over the wrinkled mass of her skirts, over the coarseness of her curls, and into the slick warm heat of her cunt. 

“Oh,” she stuttered a gasp as her finger slicked straight past her clit and into her warmth. 

He hadn’t done that. He’d released control, had both hands white-knuckled clutching to the shelves on either side of her head. His own was bent before her, looking like a sinner at prayer before the pulpit. But he wasn’t praying to any god, and he certainly wasn’t looking at anything heaven sent. He was watching her. Watched as she slid her fingers over herself, like he hadn’t been able to in the alcove.

“I want that to be my tongue,” he groaned, and she felt strangely bereft that his breath wasn’t ghosting over her cheek now, tickling the hairs by her ear. “I want to taste you again, taste more of you. I want to press my tongue against you, inside of you, drink right from the source. Fuck, Granger, the things I have dreamt about doing to you. It’s gotten worse. I can’t sleep a full night, can’t pay attention in class. Did you curse me? Is this revenge for something?” Everything was uttered so quietly, so gutteraly. Library appropriate, unlike her fingers. 

She could hear her own wetness as she circled her clit, feeling rapidly expanding curls of heat in her gut, spikes of electricity that made her knees tremble. Every muscle in her body was tensing as she stared at the top of his golden head, as she inhaled his shampoo, until even that got to be too much. Almost against her will, her eyes rolled shut, head tilting back against the books with a soft thump, letting herself feel the radiant heat of him, smell the expensive scent of him, hear his ragged gasps and the slick of her own fingers as she slipped two in, and then, daringly, a third.

Her knees buckled, and only his weight saved her.

“Hermione, please,” he was panting, but he hadn’t touched himself. He was still clutching the shelves, swaying towards her and back again, a wave of motion as he fought his own control. It was heady, how hypnotised he was by her, the flush of power that spread a blush of red across her cheeks and down her neck.

She had to stop, had to pause, had to try and make her own lungs work again. All that escaped was a stuttered moan as she pressed her weight further back on the shelf, heedless of the tomes she was skewing. 

“Keep going, you have to keep going,” he was begging her, over and over, in a litany that almost lost meaning with how fervently and quickly he was muttering. “I want to watch you come, I want to fuck you against this wall. I want to feel your cunt on my cock, Gods, Hermione. I want to feel you come on my cock. I want to feel you so wet against me, to feel you so slippery it’s hard to even keep pounding into you.” 

Her attempts at breathing failed miserably, and the long moan was possibly too loud for a public setting, let alone a library. All of that was background noise though, static in the fuzz that had become her brain. Pince could be standing beside them in horror, and Hermione was certain she wouldn’t be any the wiser. All she could concentrate on was the sudden shift in Malfoy’s posture as he dropped to his knees, breath hot against her mons, her thighs. 

Grey-black eyes looked up and met hers.

A worshipper, devout and ready to begin at divine prayer.

His bottom lip chewed red-raw.

“No,” she whispered while her brain screamed yes. Yes. _Yes_. 

“You look so good,” he said petulantly, and her fingers spasmed against herself, reflexive at the sound of his voice. “You look so good,” he said again, a wicked glint spreading from his gaze to curve across those swollen lips. She’d seen them spit-slicked when he’d been with Pansy. Seen what he looked like while he was fucking. 

He looked more fucked now.

On his knees.

For her.

“Fuck,” she exhaled, and began to frig herself mercilessly, unable to help it, unable to resist the way his intense focus lit up every nerve, flayed her skin from her bones until she was nothing but the sensation pulsing between her thighs. Three fingers slipped in and she clamped down hard on her bottom lip, cognisant enough to not make noise. To hide the squeal that wanted to erupt. But not enough to stop herself from folding in half, free hand clutching at his shoulder, encasing their faces in the riot of her curls.

He glanced up, breath hot against her cheeks.

“Why,” she mumbled, she could see the damp spot on his trousers, the hard press of his cock. She’d seen that cock, seen him wanking himself off. So why wasn’t he now? And why did she so desperately want to see it, want to feel the brush of his knuckles against her abdomen, to taste … oh gods did she want to taste, to feel the weight of him on her tongue, to feel the ridge of thick vein, the swell of his head, silky smooth. 

She must have said something out loud, though she didn’t know what exactly, because his entire body tensed under her biting fingers.

“You can’t say that,” he whined. Actually whined, looking up again, eyes torn from her fingers, his lips so close. So close. “I can’t want this. I can’t want you. You can’t say that to me.”

“What can you say to me?” She said instead, and he shifted ever so slightly, so that if she frigged herself any harder she was in danger of smacking his nose. His breath was hot against her bare skin. He could lick her if he wanted to. He could press her hips to the shelves and fuck her on his tongue and she’d let him.

Oh god, she’d let him.

She’d let him do anything to her.

“I can tell you to come,” he said in that chesty rumble. It rolled out of him and into her spine, into her nerve endings and into her core. “Come on your fingers, come in front of me. I want to watch you shatter into a million pieces for me, and I want to taste you when you’re done.”

The echo of his tongue around her fingers.

Suction. Wet heat.

She dug her nails in hard, feeling the slide of fabric, the give of flesh, the hiss of his pain gusting across her.

She exploded so quickly, so violently she couldn’t catch herself.

Again.

But he caught her, just, leaning back so their heads didn’t collide as she tumbled into his lap. Her arm caught awkwardly between them, her fingers still knuckle deep. 

Full body contact. A broken truce. 

Despite the haze of blissful numbness, she had enough sense to freeze. To inhale deeply and feel the friction of his clothes against her cheek. Against her arm. Against her bare thighs. 

Oh.

No.

She was going to be wanking herself stupid over this nightmare for months. 

Swallowing her sobbing pants, she managed to pull her trapped arm free, wincing slightly at the painful tug of her fingers. At the last moment she remembered what he wanted. But only barely, as she adjusted to offer him the glistening digits and felt something far more distracting press against her crotch. 

How she was still able to function from how quickly her blood had been switching between her groin and her face, Hermione would never be sure. But right now she was on fire. And when she shifted again he groaned, hips jerking up slightly at the contact, pressing against her over sensitive clit. The hard swell of him, so close, forbidden. Forbiddenly wanted. 

“I could-” she trailed off, not sure exactly what she could. He was almost hyperventilating under her, but neither seemed overly inclined to move. And, because she was already going to hell for all of this anyway, Hermione pressed her wet fingers to his swollen bottom lip. Watched as the pink of his tongue darted out, a slick slide, exactly how she remembered.

Her head was too heavy, thumping onto his shoulder, forcing him to bear her weight as she watched him through half closed eyes and a riot of curls. Watched as he sucked her fingers into her mouth and moaned at the taste of her. 

None of this was real.

She had passed out at her table and was having a vivid sex dream in the middle of the library while doing her arithmancy homework.

There was no way she was having almost actual sex in the library with Malfoy.

No way she was still feeling the pleasant zings in her extremities, or the distractingly arousing suck of his mouth. No way she could feel the pressure of his cock against her thigh as she began to shift her weight sideways so she could sit on the floor instead of on him. 

These things did not happen to her.

This was some sort of Pansy Parkinson dream she’d somehow stumbled into.

Malfoy lurched to his feet so quickly she jumped, her hand her own again. She looked up at him, thoroughly startled, and too fuck-drunk to be nervous that he was towering over her. A burst of flushed cheeks and raging hard on. He was wrestling with his robes, which had been laying discarded by his bag, unnoticed this whole time. 

“This isn’t right,” he was muttering to himself, and she agreed, most whole-heartedly, but couldn’t find it in herself to care all that much. His action was starting to draw her back into the real world, though. The sound of other people, footsteps, voices. The backing soundtrack of the library. 

And she was sitting on the floor, thighs and fingers wet, flushed, crazy-haired, and without her underwear.

“Oh,” she said dumbly. He paused in his frantic motions and looked at her. Took in her sprawled limbs, her cunt on proud display. His adam’s apple bobbed once, twice. The heel of his palm pressed hard against the crotch of his pants before it vanished behind a wall of black fabric.

Her mouth was both dry and watering at the same time.

She still wanted to swallow him whole.

“Better watch where you leave things,” Malfoy said, and his voice sounded almost normal. Almost harsh. He held out his wand, but there was no correcting charm this time. In fact he did nothing except point it at her. Hilt first. “Granger,” he growled, slightly unhinged, a manic tint in his eye. Because he was still aching, because he wanted to get to where she’d gone and couldn’t. He muttered something too lowly for her to hear and leant forward, pressing the wand into her sticky hand. His wand? Her wand.

_Her wand_.

Humiliation would have blindsided her if it weren’t for the fact that at the same moment he was scooping her maroon knickers off the floor and stuffing them into his pocket.

“Malfoy!” She almost shrieked in indignation. It came out high and stilted, caught just in time. He sneered down his nose at her. 

“Be seeing you,” he said, and managed to saunter off.

Hermione took a long moment to pull herself together, brain still trapped on how he could saunter with that massive boner. She’d seen it, felt it. How could he walk with that? But then her legs grew cold, and there was a breeze, and she was sticky. So sticky, seemingly everywhere. Hadn’t her hair been up before all this started?

She struggled to her feet and looked at the disturbed books where she’d leant. At the wand clasped innocently in her hand. She quickly untucked her skirt, where it was still caught in her waistband, now a horribly wrinkled mess.

A mortified giggle wormed its way out of her gut and up her throat.

Exhibitionism was still a hard no, and despite her love of books, the library had never been a fantasy. And yet, here she was.

And she wanted to do it again.


End file.
